


the price we pay

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bilbo and Lobelia have REASONS for not getting on, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Dark!shire, F/M, Lobelia centric, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Ok??, Wing!AU, Wingfic, farmers and mobs are terrifying okay, this is just angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 17:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12137910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Lobelia Sackville-Baggins knows that she deserves to join her fellow Hobbits roosting in the Party Tree on each endless summer night.She knows her place is beside her kin, dancing merrily on the wind.She knows her feet are not meant to trudge through muddy paths but rather step lightly over them, skipping on their way to elevensies with a friend.She knows that This is Bilbo Baggins' Fault.These are the fundamental truths of her life.





	the price we pay

When Lobelia Sackville-Baggins heard that Bilbo had returned, she exhaled slowly, setting her cup of tea back on the saucer. Across from her, downy sparrow wings twitching in anticipation Lily Goodbody grinned. "Isn't it such a scandal? Why, I hear he returned with," and here she pauses, "dwarves!" Lobelia raises one eyebrow, burying her hands in her skirts. "Is that so?" She manages to say, voice perfectly even, not even betraying a tremour of her emotions, steely grey dove wings lying ever so still against her back (as they have for years and years, pulled to her back as tight as her pursed lips, with just as much force.). She allows Lily to rattle on (as she always does) as her mind blurs. Cousin Bilbo, Mad Baggins. Returned.

Her feathers twitch in slight agitation. The last time he returned after an adventure.. The last time, Lobelia Bracegirdle, young and pretty and laughing, always laughing died and Mistress Lobelia was born in her place. Oh, when she was younger she hated him with a burning passion, and that flame still burns within her, even now, fuelled by cruelty and anger and old, old bitterness.

She gets rid of Lily as fast as she can (not too difficult, the girl always having her head in a daydream, no sharp mind lurking underneath waiting, just happiness and lightness.) (It drove her mad. She was never able to hide her sharpness and she was hated for it) She told Otho she was going for a walk, had many things on her mind. Otho nodded, distantly and smiled, a wan pale thing. As soon as she was out of sight, she picked up her skirts and ran.

Lobelia may never have ran off to an adventure, leaping hedges and fences, but over the years she had learned how to run, driven by necessity. Necessity that all others lacked, all other Hobbits dancing gaily on the sweet summer wind, sunning themselves contentedly. Taking a sharp turn, she paused. She could return home, stay inside for the next few days. Return to the world when it seemed more bearable, when any consequences of Bilbo's return was well past, forgotten. One of the Bolger boys whistled a tune as he worked the field below, tools flashing in the sun. Her wings trembled. Ah, she held no love for Bilbo still - his name was ash in her mouth, still, after all these years. The sight of the Bolger boy spurred her on, though, driving at her heels.

She would not allow him to continue on, to come home. In her good mind, she could not.

In her deepest depths, she knew she could, could so easily allow him to walk back to Bag End, to reclaim his home. To wake in fear that very night, torches bright like stars by the windows. To be dragged down to the Party Tree, the biggest tree in Hobbiton. To be strung up high, asked who would stand for him - hear nobody answer - to have the knife lowered to his back and saw -

She shuddered as she pushed open the door to an inn. She knew nawt which of course, but her sense of her kin was unerring, the strongest in all the Shire, she had proclaimed proudly - once. She seated herself at a table, ordered a glass of something strong, and sat down to wait. It didn't take long.

A few dwarves were sitting around the room straightened at the sound of a door being pushed open. She didn't turn, refused to, tucking her smooth legs securely underneath her long skirt. He sat down across from her, forgoing the usual greeting amongst hobbits, not touching his forehead to hers. If anything, he leaned away slightly. He never did like facing up to the consequences of his actions, she mused as he squirmed slightly in his seat. "You've got a thrice-damned nerve coming back here, you know that?" She asked quietly, voice all harsh edges, jagged.

Sharp as it has always been, designed to cut. She has never known how to be anything else. Bilbo inclines his head, striped hen harrier wings curling around his chair. * _yes*_  he sighed, wings drooping ever so slightly. * _knowledge_ * he signs next, hesitant. "Lobelia," he says at the same time, just as sharp as she is, and she knows he is changed now.

Knows he has seen something, done something that has made him hard, not soft. Knows he can never truly come home now. Knows he is like her and she can't even enjoy it, the satisfaction bittersweet. What a pair the two of them make.

"I will not be denied my home," he follows, sharply. "I have come too far for that."

Anger rises up within her, a swelling tide that Before would have drawn her up, wings puffing in outrage, shin and feet feathers near vibrating through force of emotion. Now, though, she just feels drained.

"And who will suffer for your selfishness next, hmm? Wee Prim, just starting her courtship with Drogo? Old Donnamira? Perhaps Hanna Goldworthy!"

Bilbo just about snarls at her. It seems his time on the road has worn away his layers of masks, emotions easily read. * _anger_ * his wings tell her, drawing up sharply. * _sorrow_ , _regret_ ,* they tell her too, but regrets and pity she's indulged in many a time over the years. She has no space for those. One of the dwarves lays a hand on Bilbo's shoulder, easy, friendly, possessive. Bilbo curls towards him though and Lobelia eyes him warily.

"Everything alright?" He asks Bilbo, more of a growl than a sentence.

She grins, showing Bilbo the tips of her teeth, a pointed reminder to him.

Shire business remains Shire business, was the rhyme they taught children, and for good reason too.

Bilbo nods, sharing an easy smile with the outsider. "We're doing just fine, Thorin." His wings curl towards the dark blue hawk ones; * _acceptance_ * they scream. * _love_ *.

Oh no. Oh nono nono nono NO! Bilbo snatches his wings back in a heartbeat, realising what he's done - the outsider looked puzzled - she draws in a sharp breath - how dare Bilbo, how dare he? First he comes running back to the Shire, knowing just fine what the penalty for sharing Shire business with outsiders was, and now he flaunts his loving partner in her face? The dwarf?

"Cousin," she hisses, feeling her anger not quite dissipate at the look on his face. "Are you quite mad?"

Bilbo stiffens in outrage at her accusation, quite ready to retaliate in kind. She takes a sip of her drink to steady herself; it burns going down her throat, like cold air on a crisp morning. That alone could bring her to tears on a bad day, the memory of the air, how she could dance, positively dance on the wind.

A movement catches her eye by the door; a hobbit slips out, wings tense. No doubt half of Hobbiton would descend on here as soon as word got out. She shakes her head, resolution solidifying in her gut. The Tooks would not be swift enough to calm the tempers before the mob arrived here, and the Brandybucks were too far off to stop this. Just as she had realised when she was but a faunt, this was down to her. Just as she had when she was oh so young, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins (neé Bracegirdle) looks her cousin in the eye and tells him to go. Bilbo's reaction was not the same as it had been when he was younger; he doesn't turn and run, didn't wing across the sky without looking back. Bilbo says no. Lobelia groans. "They'll damn well kill you -" Bilbo huffs. "They would never - I'm a Baggins, of Bag-End -" "And who was I?" She cuts in. "Chopped liver? No. They wont hesitate, cousin. Do not speak of what you cannot understand." Bilbo bows his head, wings wrapping round himself - * _comfort_ * they murmur to her.

For a second, she misses the way her own wings used to do that. For just a second, she allows herself to remember how her feathers ruffled when she laughed, and how it felt to be so, so alive. So soft, and naïve and loving. Lobelia was not these things anymore. She was harsh where she once was soft; all jagged edges that didn't quite know how to knit themselves back together.

Lobelia looked at the cause of all her misery, all her misfortune, at the hobbit who had ruined her life. Ruined her wings. Ruined her chances at love. Reminded herself she has risen above that - she has Otho, now, and was deemed Perfectly Respectable by the community, if disliked immensly. She endures.

She looks Bilbo Baggins in the eyes, and feels only pity. Not for herself, but for her cousin, her kin, who cannot, must not, return home, whose home was lost to him the moment he fell into cahoots with those damned dwarves.

"You leave now." She says, with all the finality she can muster. "You run as far as you can, you hear me? Bag-End will go to Drogo," and boy does that hurt her to say, she's coveted that smial for years, wanted it desperately, but she knows she'll never have it, not with her wings - she wanted it for Otho more than anything, for him to be able to have what is rightfully his, to not be turned away on account of her.

"And you live," she finishes. "You live long, cousin mine, in distant lands with your dwarves."

Bilbo shakes his head. "I don't understand. Lobelia, you cannot truly expect me to go, I can deal with this. I've dealt with a dragon, seven Hells -" His eyes go wide as he looks up. A hand clamps down on her shoulder, digging painfully in on her wing-tips. Or at least what is left of them. She turns her head to see the dwarves arrayed behind her.

How in the name of all that is good and green did Bilbo not notice them?

Never mind that, her mind whispers to her. Perhaps they, at least could be reasoned with. She raises one meticulously groomed eyebrow. Thorin does not move his hand, grip tight.

"He's in danger." She repeats. Please, Yavanna, let these dwarves have some sense between them. "You all are. You need to go." One of them scoffs.

"Bilbo'll be safe with us! Hobbits ain't nothing next to orcs,"

"Or wargs!"

"Or trolls -"

"Or a Dragon!" A smaller one chimes in as well.

Lobelia sighs. "Trust my cousin to find the only bloody dwarves that didn't understand the meaning of flee as far as your stubby little legs can carry you and then some!" She snapped in response. "Stubby!?" A chorus rose up from the dwarves and she wanted to scream, they didn't have time for this, and she wouldn't see, couldn't see any more blood spilt on these lands -

"You speak truth? There are dangers here?" Asks one of them, interrupting the outrage, an elder by the white of their hair. She steels herself.

"Yes," she says simply, and unfolds her tattered, crooked * _bent_ , _broken_ * wings. The room goes silent. She wants to scream, wants to rail against her cousin's dwarves - see all that I have lost - she wants to say - see all I have sacrificed for NOTHING in return - but she was a Bracegirdle once, and a Bracegirdle always has her pride - and she lifts her chin, proudly, meeting their gazes unflinchingly.

"You need to go." She repeats, praying that her words will be heeded. There is a crash at the door; she can hear the rhythmic stamping that haunts her dreams. She needs to make her choice.

She casts her mind back to that warm summer of her childhood; Bilbo proudly declaring he had found an Elf in the woods - had talked with him, broke bread with him - shared Shire-knowledge with him. Remembered the torches that night, brighter than any star in the sky. Remembered the silence of her friends and family when Bilbo was sentenced, just a faunt, a careless child.

They had only been children - She remembers being oh-so angry, voice reedy but ever-so steady. Remembers the relief on Bilbo's face. Remembers the harsh bite of the knife - And she makes the same choice she did all those years ago. (* _he is kin to her - how could she ever make a different one?_ *) She turns to her cousin, to Bilbo once more, mayhaps even the last time. So much hurt lies between them, old and festering, unspoken. All this dies on her lips, turning to ash in her tongue.

"Take wing," she tells him, words echoing in her mind as they had on that fateful summer night. "Go now, cousin. Don't you dare forget this."

"Lobelia?" He asks, panicked as she stands, draining the last of her drink. His dwarves begin bundling him towards the back door, a couple still glancing, horrified at her wings. She makes a point of stretching them out, as she takes her spot by the door.

"Lobelia!" He cries out, no doubt realising what she's done. The white haired dwarf pauses as he passes her.

"You could come with us, you know." He offers quietly. The door rattles in it's hinges. She squares her shoulders. "They have nothing left to take from me, Master Dwarf. You'd be best making for the Bree road - Hobbits daren't try much in the presence of Big Folk." "You have your life, still."

He sounds gentle, kind. For a second she is tempted to leave, to pick up her skirts and run. She'd never make it on foot though; and so she must face her decision. It sounds like they'll come through the door any minute now. She can see the torchlight flickering in her minds eye.

"Master Dwarf, you must go now." The kindly dwarf turns away, and she feels a pang of regret. Without turning round, she calls out to him. "You be taking care of him now, you hear?"

There is no response, but she knows he heard her. The door bursts open with a crash, wooden splinters exploding outwards. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, neé Bracegirdle draws her pride around her, as tight as her lips when pursed in disapproval, and meets her fate. 

Bilbo had done his best to forget the unsettling incident with his kin in the Shire; instead focussing on his writing, recounting his adventure. It is on one such afternoon, that he hears the flap of wings. He glances up to see a raven circling overhead, crowing loudly.

It lands after a moment, dark beady eyes watching him intently. Offers it's foot. Bilbo is whistling as he opens the letter attatched to the raven, cheerfully considering the Troll Incident and how best to put it down on his parchment.

A missive from the Shire - He grins. No doubt it's a letter asking him to return, apologize and explain why he was oh-so strangely run out of town - his kin asking for tales of his adventures, his name promised to go down in history. He reads the first line of text and freezes.

He doesn't understand.

A notice of a death in the family.

His knees buckle.

Something builds in his chest, tight and angry, a lump in his throat, squeezing his lungs, threatening his heart.

His name was to be Lotho, according to the neat print. The letter, however is unsigned. It matters not.

He knows now what he has done. Knows not if this was worse than what he had thought - near even hoped at times when he was particularly low.

Lotho. He knows he'll carry that name for the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> first fic! Please be kind.  
> Constructive criticism is appreciated.


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